Social justice and technocracy: Tracing the narratives … · 1 Social justice and technocracy:...

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Social justice and technocracy: Tracing the narratives of inclusive education in the United States Scot Danforth Word count: 9,256 College of Educational Studies, Chapman University, California, United States Email: [email protected]

Transcript of Social justice and technocracy: Tracing the narratives … · 1 Social justice and technocracy:...

Social justice and technocracy: Tracing the narratives of inclusive

education in the United States

Scot Danforth

Word count: 9,256

College of Educational Studies, Chapman University, California, United States

Email: [email protected]

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Social justice and technocracy: Tracing the narratives of inclusive

education in the United States

Over the past two decades, the percentage of American students with disabilities

educated in general classrooms with their nondisabled peers has risen by

approximately fifty percent. This gradual but steady policy shift has been driven by

two distinct narratives of organisational change. The social justice narrative espouses

principles of equality and caring across human differences. The narrative of

technocracy creates top-down, administrative pressure through hierarchical systems

based on quantitative performance data. This article examines these two primary

policy narratives of inclusive education in the United States, exploring the conceptual

features of each and initiating an analysis of their application in the public schools.

Key words: Inclusive education, US, technocracy

Two narratives of inclusive education

In From Good Will to Civil Rights, Richard Scotch carefully documents the history of

Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973, the first national law in the United States

prohibiting discrimination against persons with disabilities. He captures a historical

moment when the way that policymakers thought about disability and the life experiences

of people with disabilities began to change. The policymakers left behind a traditional

framework of charity and pity in order to embrace a more politicised understanding of

people with disabilities as a marginalised class seeking basic civil rights and liberties.

Rather than viewing disabled persons as tragic individuals, as what Erving Goffman (1963)

called ‘failed normals’, this political view recasts them as part of a disrespected and

devalue minority group seeking full participation in education, employment, and the social

life of the community.

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Beginning with the Regular Education Initiative of the 1980s (Osgood, 2005), the

driving narrative of inclusive education in the United States immersed this political concept

of disability within a morally compelling story of an excluded, misunderstood class of

children and their parents pursuing inclusion as social justice (for example, Artiles, Harris-

Murri, & Rosenberg, 2006; Lipsky & Gartner, 1996; Sapon-Shevin, 1999). This rhetoric

expressed the goal of inclusion as a specific version of the broader American civil rights

narrative whereby African-Americans, women, gays and lesbians, and other political

minority groups have sought legal and civil equality. The story of African-Americans, for

example, achieving the right to access public restrooms, lunch counters, and ultimately

public schools and universities is greatly mirrored in the narratives of disabled Americans

fighting for the accessibility of those same valued social spaces (Fleischer & Zames, 2011;

Pelka, 1997; Shapiro, 1994; Stroman, 2003).

Mara Sapon-Shevin (2003, p. 26) has expressed the social justice narrative as a

mode of moral persuasion that asks educators deep questions about the ultimate purposes of

education and the kind of world we hope to live in.

(I)nclusion is not about disability, nor is it only about schools. Inclusion is about social

justice. What kind of world do we want to create and how should we educate children

for that world? What kinds of skills and commitments do people need to thrive in a

diverse society?

At the heart of the social justice story is a moral case, a call to teachers and school

leaders to scrutinise beliefs and values in order to better align the practices of schooling

with the ethical commitments of a liberal, multicultural society. In this sense, the social

justice narrative of inclusion is about becoming better persons and raising the ethical

standards of American society.

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Since the implementation of federal accountability reforms in the late 1990s and

early 2000s, the social justice narrative of inclusive education in America has been

augmented and perhaps superseded by a new policy story that, while it does not explicitly

seek inclusion, has profound implications for the education of students with disabilities. It

is a technocratic tale of public school accountability and academic improvement. This

development reflects the resurgence of technocratic government practices in the United

States and England (Clarence, 2002). Numerous scholars in the field of educational

leadership have noted the utilisation of technocratic approaches to school management

during the era of neo-liberal accountability reform (Bolton, 2011; Crow, 2012; Fink, 2005;

McCulloch, 2002; Smyth, 2005).

Federal education policies, including revisions of the Individuals with Disabilities

Education Act (IDEA) and the 2001 No Child Left Behind, have re-narrated inclusion as a

social by-product of a complex set of administrative efficiencies and technical

achievements that systematically produce higher test scores among children. Government

agencies interact with other government agencies in a hierarchy of administrative pressure,

the higher levels compelling the lower levels, on a playing field of public school test score

data. The goal is to produce efficiencies of human action, in school organisation, classroom

instruction, and student learning, as evidenced in continuous rises in standardised reading

and mathematics test scores (Ravitch, 2010).

The new technocratic story does not overtly value or seek the integration of students

with disabilities in general education settings. It offers no grand moral vision of friendships

among diverse citizens or a community united by acceptance for human differences. It

envisions human society not as a space of interactions and relationships defined by moral

pursuits but as a grand accounting ledger with behaviour consequences, a data

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administration system where increased test scores are synonymous with improved teaching

and learning. It promises to, in the words of educational historian Diane Ravitch (2010,

p.11), ‘fix education by applying the principles of business, organization, management,

law, and marketing and by developing a good data-collection system that provides the

information necessary to incentivize the workforce – principals, teachers, and students –

with appropriate rewards and sanctions’.

My investigation of this narrative aims to augment and provide specificity to the

critique of the accountability reform movement in the United State that describes No Child

Left Behind as the historical pinnacle of a longstanding effort (for example, Spring, 1972)

to corporatise the American public schools. Based in a neo-liberal ideology, this law

effectively remakes public education to the service to the political interests of wealthy elites

and the profit goals of large corporations. Students are viewed not as young citizens in a

democracy but as future workers undergoing occupational preparation on the public dime.

The system of curriculum and testing is controlled by corporations who greatly control the

academic content and methods of teaching while banking the revenue from the massive

sales of standards-based curricular and assessment materials. In this critique, technocratic

management is simply the latest and perhaps the fiercest practical enactment of insurgent

capitalism colonising the public schools (Apple, 2004; Picciano & Spring, 2012; Saltman &

Gabbard, 2010; Taubman, 2009; Watkins, 2011).

Policy as narrative

My reasoning relies on the work of scholars who have found that a narrative policy analysis

framework is a useful approach to examining the development and implementation of

educational policies. Narrative policy analysis involves the close, critical investigation of

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the purposes, strategies, and desired outcomes of policies within an overarching framework

of story. The standard features of narrative, including plot, characters, and metaphors,

provide a rich, illustrative rhetoric that facilitates the in-depth inspection of multiple

dimensions of policy creation and enactment; including rationale, problem definition,

desired social goals, characterisation of social sub-groups, and strategy of creating social

change. Narrative offers a complex language for the articulation the social values and

theories undergirding a policy while also presenting in practical terms what the policy

would hope to achieve. Through the analysis of public policies as narratives, as cultural-

situated stories imbued with ethical and political thought and enacted through the strategic

actions of implementation, researchers are able to provide a practical, insightful

understanding of how theories and values drive human action through policy initiatives

(McBeth, Shanahan, & Hathaway, 2007; Roe, 1994; Yanow, 2000).

In this inquiry, I am particularly interested in the broad narratives of educational

policy that provide semantic, political, and practical meaning to educational leaders.

Scholars have used terms such as ‘metanarrative’ (Hampton, 2011, p. 347), ‘culture tales’

(Howard, 1991, p. 187), and ‘sacred stories’ (Crites, 1971, p. 295) to describe communal,

historical narratives that are expansive enough to explain a variety of human events across

time and place. These large-scale cultural tales infuse situational specific activity sequences

with social meaning while supplying useful theories of individual identity, moral action,

and community life. My interest in this inquiry focuses on these broad-shouldered stories of

public schooling as cultural and historical activity, specifically examining issues of

disability and inclusion/exclusion in educational policy.

The purpose of this analysis is twofold. First, I want to illuminate the primary

policy narratives informing and guiding school-based practice in relation to inclusive

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education in the United States. While inclusion concerns far more than questions about

where students with disabilities are placed, whether they are educated with their

nondisabled peers or in segregated, disability-only schools and classrooms, at the broad

level of federal educational policy the most answerable question is one of classroom

placement. Between 1992 and 2011, the percentage of disabled American students educated

in general classrooms increased by over 53% (Data Accountability Center, 2010; United

States Department of Education, 2004). The public schools in America have gradually but

steadily educated a larger portion of the disabled student population in general classrooms.

My first goal is to shed light on the primary policy narratives that have influenced

American educators as inclusive schooling has gained greater acceptance and utilisation.

My second goal is to briefly begin to examine how these influential policy

narratives inform the thoughts and actions of public school administrators, what actually

happens in school placement decisions of disabled students in the public schools. How do

these policy narratives play out through district-level and school-level decisions concerning

education of students with disabilities? As national educational policies are interpreted,

adopted, and carried out in local schools, in what ways do the primary policy narratives of

inclusion guide the thoughts and actions of school leaders? In order to examine these

questions of policy interpretation and implementation at the local level, I interviewed seven

public school administrators in Southern California about the current state of inclusive

education in their schools.

Conceptual features of social justice narrative

Themes of social justice in the inclusive education literature grew from the larger critique

that public schools designed to provide equal opportunities to students of varied economic

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and social statuses frequently contribute to and reify political inequality and asymmetrical

distribution of wealth. Drawing from critical research traditions (for example, Freire, 1970;

1972; McLaren, 1998) educators who view inclusion as social justice interpret special

education ideologies and systems of practice as contributing to the segregation and

marginalisation of disabled students (Brantlinger, 1997, 2005; Lipsky & Gartner, 1996) as

well as students of colour, boys, and lower income students (Brantlinger, 1994, 2001; Harry

& Anderson, 1994; Harry, Klingner, Sturges, & Moore, 2002; Losen & Orfield, 2002;

Skiba, Poloni-Staudinger, Gallini, Simmons, & Feggins-Azziz, 2006).

Founded in this broad and resounding critique, inclusion is articulated as the

intentional development of social and instructional communities that greatly remedy the

inequities and ethical problems of traditional special education while forwarding the values

and goals of liberal democracy (Artiles et al., 2006).

The notion of public education embracing and enacting an ethos of social justice

may be understood as consisting of three conceptual features. The first two are common

themes of liberal democracy articulated by John Dewey, his vision of a democratic

community and his concept of moral equality. These two concepts outline an ethic of

egalitarian living as central to an American democracy and the goals and practices of

education. The third and most recent feature is the social model of disability. Drawn from

the field of Disability Studies, an interdisciplinary tradition of social analysis looking at the

experiences of disabled persons in many cultural contexts, the social model illustrates how

political inequality based on concepts of ability and disability is created and maintained. It

frames disabled persons as part of a cultural minority group seeking equity and justice

through a history of civil rights struggle.

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Dewey’s vision of democratic community involves an understanding of the mutual

relationship between the individual and the community. The well-being of the community

and the full development of individuals operate in reciprocal tandem. The goal of the

democratic society is to create communities of equality and social support so that the free

expression and full development of the individuality of each citizen is a paramount concern.

The task of the individual person in the democracy is to contribute his or her unique talents

and effort to the daily interactions and activities that support the community of freedom and

equality (Martin, 2002; Ryan, 1997; Westbrook, 1993).

An example of Dewey’s concept of democratic community means at the level of

interpersonal interactions and relationships is provided by Doug Biklen and Jamie Burke’s

(2006, p. 166) notion of ‘presuming competence’. To presume competence in interaction

with a disabled person is to avoid ascribing deficit ideas to the humanity of the person.

Instead, one interprets a body or actions that may seem unusual, that may perform in

surprising ways, as completely reasonable, as ordinary and making good sense within the

experience of the disabled person. Appreciating the humanity of the person with a disability

is a way of accepting the unique contribution that person makes to the complexity and

richness of a diverse society.

Dewey’s (1976a, p. 299) moral equality concept presents a democratic way of

thinking about how humans differ from one another. The fact that all persons are unalike,

that they differ in a million different ways – physical size, appearance, interests,

personality, needs, strengths, weaknesses – is obvious. But what shall we make of these

differences? Dewey encourages us not to think about differences in terms of hierarchies of

superior and inferior, higher and lower, better and worse. He invites us to view human

differences through a lens of incomparability (Dewey 1976a, 1976b).

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‘Moral equality means incommensurability, the inapplicability of common and

quantitative standards’ (Dewey, 1976a, p. 299). We should avoid concocting a grand

standard or overarching concept that we should use to compare students to one another.

Acting on the basis of moral equality begins with rejecting the misguided goal of

comparing one student to the rest of the class or to a statistical average. Roger Slee (2011,

p. 14) has written, ‘Inclusive education … offers an audacious challenge to the attachment

of ascending and descending values to different people’. In democratic eyes, all students

are of equal value.

The social model of disability, unlike most theoretical and practical formulations of

disability in the educational literature, grew out of the concrete experiences of disabled

persons. In 1975, a group of disabled persons in England calling themselves The Union of

the Physically Impaired Against Segregation (UPIAS) built a new idea with profound

consequences.

In our view, it is society which disables physically impaired people. Disability is

something imposed on top of our impairments, by the way we are unnecessarily

isolated and excluded from full participation in society. Disabled people are therefore

an oppressed group in society … For us as disabled people it is absolutely vital that we

get this question of the cause of disability quite straight, because on the answer

depends the crucial matter of where we direct our main energies in the struggle for

change (Union of Physically Impaired Against Segregation, 1975, pp. 3–4).

This revolutionary statement is the basis for the social model of disability that has

been further developed by an interdisciplinary field of academic scholarship called

Disability Studies (for example, Albrecht, Seelman, & Bury, 2001; Barnes, Oliver, &

Barton, 2002; Davis, 1997, 2002; Gabel, 2005; Linton, 1998; Oliver, 1990). What began as

a new concept of physical disability has been extended over the years into our thinking

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about all disabilities, including intellectual disabilities (Bogdan & Taylor, 1994; Kliewer,

1998), autism (Savarese & Savarese, 2010), and learning disabilities (Connor & Ferri,

2010).

The social model defines disability as the series of systemic and pervasive barriers

to inclusion, participation, success, and happiness that isolate and oppress persons whose

bodies and minds do not conform to social conventions of appearance and functioning.

Society attaches stigma to many physical and psychological variations of humanity, thereby

rendering those persons as lesser citizens. The politics of disability are harsh and

widespread, including exclusion from meaningful participation in employment, education,

recreation, housing, and social relationships.

In the social model, people with disabilities are understood as a cultural minority

group seeking their civil rights, attempting to be included in all avenues of community life.

The social model of disability views human differences as a legitimate and disability as a

valued cultural identity. Through actively resisting the social and political forces of

exclusion and oppression, disability can become a source of identity and pride (Gabel &

Peters, 2004; Fleischer & Zames, 2011; Pelka, 1997; Shapiro, 1994; Stroman, 2003).

A series of specific federal policy developments have propelled the technocratic

narrative of national educational policy in the United States over the past decade. In the

next section, I examine how changes in the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act

combined with No Child Left Behind to constitute the ‘technocratic approach to school

reform’ (Ravitch, 2010, p. 29) that has altered the landscape of inclusive education in the

public schools. First, I detail the specific policies that have contributed to the growth of

technocracy in public school administration. From there, I then explore the conceptual

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features of technocratic management that give the narrative its political and practical

character.

Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA)

Prior to the 1997 reauthorisation of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA),

the federal policy on the education of students with disabilities emphasised access to public

schooling without placing a high priority on the quality of educational provision. The main

victory of the 1975 Education for Handicapped Children Act (EHA) was the federal

mandate that all states provide a public education for students with disabilities without an

exclusion option. Public school systems across the land were required to educate all

disabled students. The federal policy focused more on getting students with disabilities into

schools and classrooms than on achieving positive academic outcomes (Hardman &

Dawson, 2008; Hehir, 2005; Kleinert, Kearns, & Kennedy, 1997).

Prior to the passage of IDEA 1997, students with disabilities were routinely left out

of state systems of standardised academic assessment. There was little expectation at the

level of federal policy that students receiving special education services make significant

academic gains or that school districts pay close attention to their educational progress. In

1991, most states did not know how many or if their students with disabilities were taking

state-mandated tests. 54% of states did not keep track of participation rates for students

with disabilities on state assessments (Ysseldyke, Dennison, & Nelson, 2004). Kleinert,

Kearns, and Kennedy (1997) estimated that only 50% and 60% of all students with

disabilities in the United States were participating in mandatory systems of state

educational assessment before the policy changes adopted by the 1997 IDEA.

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In the minds of many educational leaders, operating in a climate of minimal

accountability for academic achievement, the special education system was a powerful

purveyor of low expectations for student learning. Kleinert, Kearns, and Kennedy (1997, p.

195) noted, ‘Unfortunately, one effect of excluding specific groups of students from state

and district educational performance measures can be a decreased concern for what those

students are learning’. Former federal director of special education Thomas Hehir (2005, p.

111) observed, ‘The education of students with disabilities has been plagued by low

expectations, which is why many in the disability community have sought to have students

included in state and national accountability systems. The hope is that by including students

in statewide assessments, more attention will be paid to assuring that these students receive

quality programs’. Hehir (2005, p. 111) gives the specific example of a disabled eight year

old boy receiving training in fine motor development but no science instruction. ‘(L)ike that

of too many children with disabilities, this boy’s educational program concentrates

inordinately on the characteristics of his disability at the expense to the curriculum’.

The authors of the 1997 reauthorisation of IDEA attempted to address a pair of

related concerns. First, there was an impression that expectations for the academic learning

of students with disabilities must be raised. Second, the problem of low expectations was

viewed as intimately linked to the fact that students with disabilities often did not take the

states’ standardised achievement tests. States did not test students with disabilities because

they expected little from them. But this logic also worked in reverse. The failure to track

the academic performance of disabled students in districts and schools allowed educators to

undervalue the achievement of those students (Hardman & Dawson, 2008; Hehir, 2005).

The 1997 IDEA pushed states to include students with disabilities in all state

academic assessments. States were required to develop suitable adaptations and

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modifications of tests to meet the performance needs of these students. Also, for students

for whom the adaptations did not provide reasonable access to the standard examinations,

states were required to develop and utilise alternative assessments. IEP teams were

entrusted with the decision of selecting the most reasonable testing accommodations or

assessment alternatives for individual students. Further, the federal government mandated

that states report the performance of students with disabilities on all state assessments

(Ysseldyke et al., 2004; Kleinert et al., 1997). This sent ‘a clear message to everyone –

teachers, administrators, and, perhaps most important, families and students themselves –

that the learning of all children fundamentally matters’ (Kleinert et al., 1997, p. 207).

The 1997 reauthorisation initiated a dramatic policy shift toward greater

accountability for teachers, schools, and school districts for the academic achievement of

students with disabilities. This shift was fortified seven years later by the 2004 IDEA

(Hardman & Dawson, 2008; Hehir, 2005; Ysseldyke et al., 2004). The 2004 reauthorisation

linked explicitly with the 2001 No Child Left Behind legislation to hold schools

accountable for the measured progress of students with disabilities on standardised tests of

reading and math. It ensured disabled students’ access to and progress on the general

curriculum.

Federal policy evolved into implementation of the view that the only way students with

disabilities can be viewed as successful as their peers without disabilities is to ensure

that they have an opportunity to learn the same instructional content. To ensure

compliance with this provision, federal policy required that a student’s individualized

education program (IEP) have a statement of measurable annual goals that enable the

child to access, participate in, and progress in the general curriculum. Further, the

school district must ensure that the IEP team reviews each child’s IEP periodically to

address any lack of expected progress in the general curriculum (Hardman & Dawson,

2008, p. 7).

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Although the revised versions of IDEA did not create a specific mandate for

students with disabilities to be included in general education classrooms, they made it

increasingly difficult for school districts to adhere to the law through practices of

segregation. Historically, and practically, the location of the general curriculum in

American schools was the general classroom.

No child left behind

The 2001 reauthorisation of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, often called No

Child Left Behind, is the centrepiece of the federal educational reform. The legislation

mandated that all states develop a complex regime of standardised tests in reading and

mathematics to be utilised in an aggressive system of top-down accountability. States were

required to create their own standardised tests with three levels of performance, often

termed basic, proficient, and advanced. Each state is allowed to define a proficient level of

academic performance. Public schools must test all students in mathematics and reading in

grades three through eight and once during the high school years. Based on each state’s

definitions of proficient mathematics and reading skill levels for each of the assessed

grades, the federal government required that all students perform at proficiency level by

2014.

States, districts, and schools were ordered to disaggregate achievement data by race,

ethnicity, low income status, disability, and English learners. In order to ensure that all of

these sub-groups were progressing steadily toward the goal of full proficiency, states were

required to create timelines detailing the standards of Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP).

Each sub-group must gradually rise toward 100% proficiency during the years leading up to

2014.

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Districts and schools who fail to meet the performance standards are subject to

punishments. For example, schools not reaching AYP for every subgroup are designated as

School In Need of Improvement (SINI) and face a progressive series of administrative

sanctions. Each successive year of failure turns up the scope and power of the

administrative intervention.

Five years failure to meet AYP for any sub-group prompts the most dramatic action.

Schools are forced to completely restructure, essentially wiping out the ineffective school

and starting over from scratch. The five restructuring options including becoming a charter

school, replacing principal and staff, handing control over to a private educational

management company, and falling under state control. The final option is ‘any other major

restructuring of the school’s governance’ (Ravitch, 2010, p. 98), an ambiguous reform

option chosen by most schools and districts (Elledge, Le Floch, Taylor, & Anderson, 2009;

Nagle, Yunker & Malmgren, 2006; Ravitch, 2010; Wong, 2008).

Conceptual features of technocracy

Technocracy is ‘a system of governance in which technically trained experts rule by virtue

of their specialized knowledge and position in dominant political and economic

institutions’ (Fischer, 1990, p. 17). The valued expertise in the work of policy development

and implementation is technical and scientific (Meynaud, 1969). More broadly,

technocracy may be understood as ‘a theory of governmental decision making designed to

promote technical solutions to political problems’ (Fischer, 1990, p. 18). The models and

practices of engineering, honed and refined in the manipulation of the material world, are

promised as the tools to produce progress and harmony in the social world (Akin, 1977;

Segal, 1985).

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The governance of the American public schools in the accountability movement era

includes four specific features of technocracy as philosophy and practice of educational

management. First, it involves the intensive rationalisation of human activity, the actions of

educators and students in the schools. Second, it embraces a top-down approach to

educational management and governance. Third, it proceeds from a rigid, deterministic

brand of positivist epistemology. Finally, it seeks improvements in schools and society

through practices of social engineering.

Through the rationalisation of human activity, government administrators interpret

behaviour, emotion, thought, and interaction with what Bell (1973, p. 349) describes as

‘technocratic mind-view’. Common understandings of social meaning derived from

experience or cultural practices are replaced by mathematical algorithms.

In its emphasis on the logical, practical, problem-solving, instrumental, orderly, and

disciplined approach to objectives, in its reliance on a calculus, on precision and

measurement and a concept of a system, it is a world-view quite opposed to the

traditional and customary religious, esthetic, and intuitive modes (Bell, 1973, p. 350).

The technocratic mindset translates ‘the vital to the rational’ (Bell, 1973, p. 350),

distilling the complexities, vagaries, and inconsistencies of everyday life into fields of

metric regularity and schemes of statistical determination.

Similarly, Fischer (1990, p. 41) describes a ‘technocratic consciousness’ that strips

lived experience of its aesthetic and ethical features, thereby rendering a clearly calculated

picture of ‘how the world works, a conception of how it should work, and a set of tactics

for changing it’ (p. 41). In this view, technocracy is a mental state, a way of thinking about,

organising, and interpreting the world that yields mechanised symmetry, predictability, and

efficiency.

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The top-down approach to the management of schools is a central feature of what

Apple (2004, p. 23) calls ‘the increasing power of the “evaluative state,”’ an authoritarian

mode of governance focused on intensified regulation of the behaviour of educational

professionals.

It rests on an assertion that the greatest knowledge – technical expertise – resides at

the top of a bureaucratic hierarchy. Dictates are issued down the ladder, seeking

compliance at each level; from federal government to state departments of education to

local districts and, finally, to schools and teachers. Local perspectives on problems and

solutions are ignored in favor of statistical models held at upper administrative levels.

Administrators at the upper ladder rungs employ a variety of rewards and punishments –

‘the carrot and the stick’ (Fischer, 1990, p. 191) – to achieve compliance down through the

multiple levels of the management system.

The assumption that the scientifically-based managers at the top of the system know

best creates a bureaucratic system where communication flows in one direction and genuine

dialogue among a range of perspectives is simply a waste of time.

Inherent in this strategy is a subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, form of

authoritarianism. Once the idea that we can empirically calculate and administratively

design 'the right way' to accomplish our goals is accepted, there is little reason to

engage in exploration of other views (Fischer, 1990, p. 43).

Meynaud (1969) further explains that the government agencies and officials

wielding power are often concealed behind a shroud of secrecy. The top levels of hierarchy

are isolated from meaningful engagement with the local administrators who are trying to

apply and live with the policy requirements.

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The adherence to a positivist epistemology reflects the attempt to apply the

philosophy and methods of physical science to human social activities. Positivism may be

defined as an orientation toward knowledge that seeks precision through the measurement

of observable phenomena. Descriptions of teaching and learning are valued only when

articulated as measurement and mathematics (Phillips, 1983; Phillips & Burbules, 2000).

Technocracy begins with the assumption that society is a machine comprised of

working parts and interactive processes that are best understood through quantitative

measurement and practices of statistical analysis. ‘Technocracy makes one basic postulate:

that the phenomena involved in the functional operation of the social mechanism are

metrical’ (Scott, 1933, p. 39). The discourse of educational management prioritises

mathematical representations of human behaviour in schools, the charts, graphs, and trends

lines of measured activities.

As a practical matter, this epistemological stance supports the firm belief that the

administrators at the federal and state level undoubtedly have the best knowledge about

what to do and how to do it. Scientific activity is envisioned as doubt-free, lacking the

typical controversies and disagreements that many would contend are central to the

scientific process (Clarence, 2002). The stance of mathematical certainty validates the

technocrats’ position at the top of the management mountain, lending scientific credibility

to the authoritarian approach. If there is one best way to seek the proper education of young

people, then it should be issued forcefully and without compromise to local educational

officials, regardless of their opinion of the merits of the policy.

The overall policy development and implementation strategy attempts to improve

public school, and by logical extension American society, through practices of social

engineering. Technocracy in the United States sprouted first as an organised movement of

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engineers during the Great Depression who championed the application of their technical

expertise to the problems of economic and social disorder. Drawing heavily from the

writings of sociologist Thorstein Veblen (1921), well-known engineers such as Howard

Scott and Walter Rautenstrauch, Chair of the Columbia University Department of Industrial

Engineering, led the development of a set of utopian social engineering prescriptions for

American society. They believed that great hope of healing the economic and social woes

of the times resided in the application of scientific thinking to the organisation of society

(Akin, 1977; Segal, 1985).

The educational policies of NCLB and IDEA assumed that government can improve

society through the application of engineering knowledge and practices to social

communities called schools. The regularity, order, and rationality of machines can be

injected into the otherwise disorderly and intemperate public schools through technocratic

governance. Appealing to ‘the commonly held fiction that education is non-political’

(Cremin, 1961, p. 13), technocratic management supply the steady hand of rationality to the

public schools. The subjectivities of interest group politics and inconsistencies of teaching

and learning are removed by administrative intervention, through what Daniel Bell (1973,

p. 350) called the ‘perfection of administration’.

Narrating policy implementation

The federal accountability movement, from the revisions of IDEA in 1997 and 2004, to the

implementation of NCLB beginning in 2002, has profoundly impacted American public

schools for over a decade. In the experiences of public school administrators who work at

the school and district level, how have these policy changes influenced inclusive education?

How do the two primary policy narratives of inclusion guide the thoughts and actions of

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school leaders? In order to begin to examine these questions of policy interpretation and

implementation at the local level, I interviewed (40 to 60 minutes) seven public school

administrators in Southern California about the current state of inclusive education in their

schools. The school administrators held the following professional positions: four

elementary school principals (EP), two high school principals (HP), and a school district

special education director (SE).

I started each interview with the same conversational prompt, ‘Since 1992, the

percentage of disabled American students educated in general classrooms has increased by

53%. Have you witnessed a similar increase in inclusion? How do explain what you have

seen in your district/school?’ In every instance, this prompt easily provoked an extended

conversation about the topic. Themes were derived with reference to the two primary

narratives of inclusive education policy, exploring how these narratives were animated,

enacted, combined, and resisted in the actions and words of the interview participants.

First, all participants agreed that the inclusion movement has gained new energy

and inclusive practice has gained greater implementation due to increase in top-down

mandate. IDEA and NCLB accountability policies at the federal level have prompted the

State Department of Education and District Superintendents to push schools toward more

inclusion.

‘In 2004, the changes to IDEA created a legal mandate that IEP teams consider

general education first. That had to be the first option’. (SE)

‘Now every district and every school has to show (academic achievement) progress

not just for the whole school but for all the sub-groups, including kids with

21

disabilities … We need for the kids with disabilities to have access to the general

education content’. (HP)

‘IDEA pushed us. It pushed the whole country. It changed how we do the IEP

process. When you go through the IEP process, you look at all of the present levels

of functioning. Before you even get into a possible placement, you have to look at

how the student can succeed and be served in general education’. (SE)

An administrator in a school district that is under ‘program improvement’, close

monitoring and guidance by the State Department of Education due to low standardised test

scores commented,

‘The State gave us a target for inclusion. For kids spending over 80% of time

integrated into general classes, we are supposed to have over 76%. Right now, we

are only at 48%’. The State also told the district to fully embrace the Response to

Intervention model as the best approach to reaching that target. (SE)

A school principal explained that the top-down strategy in her district involved

bringing in a well-known inclusion expert to conduct an evaluation of the district’s special

education programs. The consultant team examined special education system for the whole

district and created a series of recommendations. Among the list of problems found by the

consultants were a lack of an implemented Response to Intervention (RTI) model (IDEA

2004) and an overabundance of students with disabilities in separate, special education

classes. Recommendations included the development of an RTI model of early intervention

in the general classrooms, placing special education service identification as a last resort,

and the development of more inclusive classrooms. Both recommendations placed greater

22

responsibility for the education of students with disabilities in the hands of general

educators and building principals who often viewed these students as the purview of special

educators. Not surprisingly, the district used the consultant’s recommendation to promote

an inclusive education agenda.

‘The (district’s) special education department was already moving toward more

inclusion. The consultant’s report gave inclusion more teeth, moved things along

faster’. (EP)

‘Our district central office told everyone, ‘Someday we will have ALL the kids in

regular education’. (EP)

Even an administrator who opposed the move toward greater inclusion

acknowledged the district’s tactics in contracting a noted inclusive educator to conduct the

analysis.

‘They brought in a well-known guy, paid him a lot, and they are doing his

philosophy. But he had his mind made up before he even arrived. Such baloney. Are

you kidding me?’ (EP)

Second, the six participants who interpreted the inclusion movement as a generally

positive development in American public schools described the top-down, technocratic

mandate as supporting and furthering the social justice narrative of inclusive education.

Although an educational or political theorist (for example, Fischer, 1990) would quickly

identify the technocratic elements of NCLB and IDEA as conceptually incompatible with

the liberal democratic themes of the social justice narrative, these school leaders did not

find the two narratives to be incommensurable in practice. In fact, they experienced the

23

policy pressure from the federal and state level as putting more wind into the sails of the

old social justice goals of inclusion.

‘A number of different factors have influenced inclusion over the years. Certainly,

NCLB – the emphasis on testing, accountability, and highly qualified teachers,

made a big difference. The steep rise in inclusion came in about 2005 or 2006. We

started to say to ourselves, “Are we putting these kids where they need to be?”’

(HP)

‘There has been a philosophical change that has occurred over time. We now realize

that special education should not be something separate. Students with disabilities

have gaps in their learning. But every student has gaps in his learning. We need to

provide the right supports for every student’. (HP)

‘There is a belief that all kids should be taught in the general classroom, that all kids

should … you know, with NCLB, have “highly qualified teachers” … and that

means general ed’. (SE)

Technocratic policy developments in the United States had, from this view, supplied

the older social justice narrative with an invigorating tonic that propelled the inclusive

education agenda forward.

Third, despite speaking in strong support of inclusive education, two of the

administrators warned that inclusion is not for all disabled students. There are limits to

what schools and teachers can accomplish. Some students, most notably those described as

having ‘severe disabilities’, will probably not be educated in general education classrooms.

24

‘We had to send him to a special school. His behavior was just too out of control.

We can include everyone’. (EP)

‘We still have to offer a full continuum of services. Full inclusion, you know,

throwing everybody in, doesn’t address all the needs of the kids. Many of them

need functional skills’. (EP)

Means and ends

The work of school administrators undoubtedly occurs at the busy intersection of many

streams of cultural and political activity. Numerous policy directives, pedagogical trends,

technological systems, and cultural influences collide in the curriculum and teaching of the

public schools. Educational practitioners are accustomed to working on professional

programs and activities that mingle ingredients supplied by different ideological positions.

Ainscow, Booth, and Dyson (2006) have noted how teachers working in schools pulled by

conflicting policy agendas often find a way to mix opposing policy directives in daily

practice. What seems like oil and water to the theorist can commingle with little hesitation

in the practices of the public schools.

If we accept the casual pragmatism of the educational administrators interviewed in

this article, we would believe that the two narratives of inclusion blend fairly easily.

Perhaps they even complement one another. The social justice narrative supplies the moral

argument. The technocratic narrative provides the political pressure. Together, in alliance,

they propel inclusive education reforms in the public schools.

But we should dig deeper. The apparent marriage of the two narratives of inclusive

education in the United States is held together by tenuous and temporary bonds. The

problem lies in the difference between ends and means. The social justice narrative

25

proposes that educating students of diverse abilities and bodily configurations in a shared

community is a valuable goal within a democratic society. Creating a diverse community of

learning, acceptance, and friendship within the public school is part of living in a

democratic way. As Dewey might tell us, the ends and the means are inseparable as schools

embrace and enact a cultural valuing of human equality.

The technocratic narrative only holds inclusion as a means to an end, as a helpful

vehicle in service to the larger technical goal, as an instructionally useful way to raise

standardised test scores for disabled students. Technocratic educational administration has

no commitment to the fulfillment of democratic principles. In fact, technocracy lacks any

political or moral affiliations, taking pride in detachment from the purposes and goals of

political life (Centeno, 1993; Fischer, 1990; Putnam, 1977).

The divide between means and ends raises two bothersome questions about the

technocratic narrative. First, are there specific student populations that do not benefit from

the narrative? Armstrong, Armstrong and Spandagou (2009) warn that the adoption of

policies that support inclusive education often lead to a political recalibration of the lines of

division, an ironic and unfortunate re-exclusion of culturally devalued groups that fail to

meet the new requirements for normality and acceptance. Perhaps inclusive education

within the accountability reform movement becomes a useful means to raising test scores

for some groups of disabled students and not others. Notably, two of the seven interview

respondents spoke of the limitations of inclusion, of how inclusion was not appropriate for

students with ‘severe’ disabilities. Their comments are supported by the relatively low level

of inclusion nationally of students with intellectual disabilities. Despite the shift toward

inclusive education in the United States, students with intellectual disabilities are primarily

26

schooled in segregated classrooms and schools. The inclusion movement has passed them

by (Smith, 2007, 2010).

The second problematic question about the technocracy narrative also draws our

attention to circumstances in which educational leaders find inclusion to be an

unsatisfactory means to the true end of test score increases. What happens if the

standardised test scores of students with or without disabilities educated in inclusive

classrooms do not go up? What happens if the scores decrease?

Teaching successfully in inclusive classrooms is often challenging, requiring the

development of advanced forms of pedagogical knowledge and skill. Most teachers in the

United States who work in inclusive classrooms are poorly prepared, lacking the necessary

conceptual understandings and practical skills to be effective with diverse populations of

students. Both pre-service teacher preparation and in-service professional development tend

to fall short of providing teachers with the required inclusive education knowledge and

skills (Avramidis, Bayliss, & Burden, 2000; Burke & Sutherland, 2004; Kamens, Loprete,

& Slostad, 2000; Stanovich & Jordan, 2002).

Inclusive education is no more immune to poor implementation that any other

educational practice. If carried out by underprepared educators, it becomes a failed means

to the technocratic end. Centeno (1993) observes that technocracies in democratic countries

typically operate under tremendous pressure ‘to perform consistently on a consistent basis’

(p. 328). The expectation, both within government and in the population, is for efficient and

effective achievement of the desired ends. The risk under the technocratic policy narrative

is that inclusive education might be tossed aside as a failed instructional program, an

inefficient technique, by impatient school leaders seeking rising trend lines of academic

achievement data. Professional activities failing to lead to test data increases are subject to

27

technocratic interpretation as unnecessary, requiring replacement with educational practices

more conducive to data enhancement.

Stripped of moral, cultural, and political value, cast in a narrative of social

engineering and technical adjustment, inclusion may end up on the dust-heap of inefficient

pedagogies. If that happens, then the technocracy of educational accountability reform will

no longer provide a policy narrative in support of inclusion. Educators will be left with

what they had before accountability reforms entered the scene in the late 1990s, a single

narrative of inclusive education, a strong social justice argument for inclusive school

communities based in democratic ideals.

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